One Bullet Away

I used an alcohol pen to mark our progress on the map. The 05 northing passed without incident, and then the 10. We had traveled ten kilometers into uncharted territory with no trouble. Twenty kilometers of dark farmland lay between us and Ba‘quba. As I inked a little check mark next to the 14 northing on the map, a chain gun sounded its tearing rattle.

A general warning went out to all vehicles: “War Pig’s in contact. Armed dismounts on both sides of the road.”

The road before us curved to the right, and the whole column of LAVs stretched around the gentle bend. Red tracers reached out from the road. Bushmaster cannons thumped, deeper and slower than the chain gun. Still, the only fire was outgoing, nothing coming in. I dropped the night vision goggles in front of my eyes and started scanning the platoon’s flanks. Open fields stretched to our left, but a cluster of three or four small buildings stood a hundred meters directly to the right. Everything was still.

I called the teams, thinking they might see something I couldn’t. “All Hitman Two stations, I have no targets. What do you see?”

“Two-One’s looking. No joy.”

“Two-Two. We got nothing.”

“Two-Three. Nada.”

Ahead of us, strings of tracers arced toward the road from the fields. They wobbled and wove, like a light show. Harmless-looking, almost pretty. LAR wasn’t shooting at shadows: people were out there, and they wanted to fight.

Radio reports were coming in fast. At least two enemy platoons armed with AKs and RPGs hid in the ditches alongside the road. War Pig was tearing them up through thermal sights. A man can hide his body under a blanket in a ditch, but he can’t hide his body heat.

Lasers danced along the buildings next to us as Marines aimed at windows and doors, waiting for movement. No one fired. To our front, the shooting increased in intensity, with the crisscrossing tracers sometimes bright enough to wash out my goggles. Behind us, a .50-caliber gun opened up with a roar, followed by the thunk-boom, thunk-boom of a Mark-19. We couldn’t see what the Marines were firing at, so we kept watching our sector. Still no targets.

The gunfire was so loud that Gunny Wynn and I had to shout at each other across the Humvee cab.

“They’re probing for weak points,” I yelled.

He nodded in agreement, and added, “We are the weak point.”

The firing began to take on a pattern. An enemy gunner would let loose a burst, and then Marines responded by pouring hundreds of rounds at him. At each crescendo, the shots were so loud and so frequent that they blended from individual popping and cracking into one indistinguishable roar. We still saw no targets nearby, so there was nothing to do but watch and wait. With thousands of bullets being fired all around us, we sat as if in the eye of a storm.

In the grainy green fields of my night vision goggles, a flash resolved into a blooming cloud of smoke and dust. Mortar. It fell on the west side of the road, to our left. I looked at Gunny Wynn.

“You see that?”

“Yeah. Big one. Eighty-two millimeter at least.” Wynn’s voice was detached, his assessment almost clinical.

“Let’s see where the next one lands,” I shouted over the gunfire still popping all around us. “Might be time to get this train moving again.”

The next one landed on the right side of the road. Then left again, but closer. They had us bracketed and were walking the rounds in on us. So much for idiotic tactics — this was a combined-arms ambush. They’d stopped us with the infantry and now hoped to hammer an easy target.

Sitting on the road, we made an easy target. But the false security of the night vision goggles protected me. I watched the mortars fall through glass lenses that divided things into two worlds. We lived in the world of color, which then was dark. The mortars fell in a world of green, which then was light. Even the tooth-rattling crump of the rounds couldn’t shake the impression that a barrier stood between these worlds, protecting us. So it seemed only vaguely threatening when we were ordered forward to help LAR break contact from the ambush.

“Hitman Two, move up on the west side of the road and provide suppressive fire for War Pig to peel back to the south.”

I had to smile at the insanity of it. “Hey, Gunny, the CO wants our tin-pot Humvees to go up there and shoot so the LAVs can disengage.”